LA Daily News published this piece of mine, originally titled "American Idol and the Deluded."

Yes, it's true. I sang out in public without shame. See this photo on the left? I'm dancing and singing, as I often did. And from the big hand gestures, I'm guessing the number I am assaulting everyone in my vicinity with is Age of Aquarius.

And if I had more room in the Daily News, I would've included how I, as a Freshman (who should have known better by then), sang Linda Ronstadt's Blue Bayou to my entire high school. Yep, it was just me singing acapella - standing in the middle of the auditorium during a school rally... even blue-eyed-Dave-with-the-perfectly-feathered-hair was there to witness this event. I know, because he mentioned it to me four years later. Ugh!

So, yes, I was truly delusional... I say in the past-tense, while typing about my life into cyberspace as if anyone gives a damn. Some things haven't changed.

We went to Molly Malone's last night to see our friend Fred play keyboard with Philip Sayce. You know what I love about this band? They all get so into it. Even the drummer, Mike Leasure - who was great, by the way - sang his heart out. I don't usually see that. It was all pure passion for the music... something that all too often is missing, at least on the radio, these days.

There were four of us standing in a clump outside of Molly Malones: My
husband, me, a friend (who will go by name “concerned friend”) and another
friend (a very serious, stoic, no-nonsense record producer). Only moments before, the producer was talking
to my husband about some audio gear... maybe some sort of meter.

Our concerned friend stops whatever conversation is taking place to ask the
record producer a question.

Concerned Friend: Hey, what about what happened to (80's rock star), huh?

Stoic Record Producer: What?

C.F: Uh, you don't know?

Stoic RP shakes his head.

C.F: You just worked with (80's rock star) didn't you?

Stoic RP: Yes, but I don't keep tabs on him.

C.F: Well, uh, he's... he's...uuhhhhmmm

The concerned friend, so concerned this news will shake up the record
producer, hesitates to tell him. He entered the conversation thinking the record producer had surely heard.

I nudge the C.F's arm to say it already.

C.F: Um... he's... no longer with us.

Stoic RP remains expressionless.

C.F: He's no longer alive. Dead.

Stoic RP says nothing. His expression doesn't change. He then turns to my
husband and continues talking about meters. "So what were you saying about..."

The concerned friend seemed certain the friend/record producer would need to
be consoled - might even buckle at the knees upon hearing the news. The build up to the punchline left me anticipating some sort
of reaction from the record producer. But no. Nothing. He was
more concerned with meters. It was such an odd moment. My husband and I both wanted to laugh. But it seemed so wrong.

My family and I went there about six years ago when visiting Yosemite. It's amazing. Starting right from the bumpy, old west-style drive into town - Bodie is an experience.

(photo to left: The grave site of one of Bodie's prostitutes: Rosa May.)

Yep, it's very cool to peek into windows and get a dusty glimpse of life as it once was - warped-floored saloons, desk-strewn classrooms, homes with rusty bedsprings and pharmacies with amber colored bottles once filled with odd
elixirs.

I could've stayed there for hours. To me, it's about as close to time travel (a huge childhood fantasy) as I will probably get. I took photos of the buildings as my husband wandered off. He stood behind a group of Japanese tourists and smiled as someone took their photo. He could barely tell me what he did he was bent over laughing so hard about how the people will look at their photos and wonder who the smiling non-Japanese guy is. Meanwhile, my daughter and her friend Sara walked around rubbing their arms from the ghostly vibes felt with each gust of wind that blew through the sage and gravel paths of town.

Naturally, I had to tell my daughter about Bodie's legendary curse (read halfway down linked page) which falls upon anyone who dares pilfer any of the town's items. She was so spooked that before we left the ghost town's parking lot, my daughter took off her shoes to extract any cursed pebbles that may have worked their way into her shoes. She took no chances.

Ooohhhh...the poor kid. Bwwaahhhhaaa hhaaaa!!

*Here are some interesting local cemeteries:

Pioneer Cemetery in Sierra Madre. I read that Halloween and Family Plot were filmed there.

Pasadena Magazine is beautiful!!
It's not only exquisitely designed, but it's interesting, informative and well written. I'm so impressed with the variety of articles. Writer Maryann Hudson has a great story, "The Journey Continues," on Pasadena before and after the revitalization, which I really enjoyed. And Iva-Marie Palmer - who posted a comment below - provided vitally important info in her piece, "A Night Out for $20." Now that will come in handy!

I truly appreciate the opportunity to contribute to the premiere issue. And the launch party at the Vista del Arroyo Bungalows was impressive - jazz and
rock bands in different bungalows and food catered by Katana. And, best of all, I got to see a lot of the wonderful people I have been lucky to meet earlier when writing my articles.

The subjects of my first article were four inspiring women who began Truly Mom. Each of the women are genuinely sweet people who impressed me with their incredible gratitude and appreciation for life and their determination.

My other article is on the down-to-earth, compassionate and extremely busy Dr. D*R*E*W (I spelled it out that way because earlier I had a weird incident with someone blog-searching his name and misusing a photo I took of him.) I truly appreciate him letting me tag along to his lecture, his home and KROQ.

The photographer, Sarah Brewer, took some really great shots for my two articles. And I believe she took the great cover photo of the Arroyo
Seco Bridge.

Yep, it was an exciting evening. I even got to meet Ernest in accounting, who overheard me speaking to someone. He tapped me on the shoulder and said, "What's your name?"

Saturday night, the air was chilly and the streets glistened with rain. It was a perfect night to see a movie, so my husband and I went to Laemmles Theater in the Fallbrook mall to see the documentary "In the Shadow of the Moon." I highly recommend it.

Not only is the film fascinating and informative, but I found it inspirational, philosophical and spiritual. I walked out amazed at what we humans are capable of. And, as it shows in the film, the accomplishment of stepping on the moon was celebrated worldwide - not just a U.S. feat. It was something humans all over the globe took pride in.

While I watched the film, it was hard not to look at the swirling blue marble we call earth without wondering what I was doing on the planet at the time. In my father's journal he kept as we traveled Europe, he noted that we were in Copenhagen, Denmark on July 20, 1969. He wrote, "The US astronauts landed on the moon. Shelly (that's me) still vomiting."

One small step for man...

Hey, Valleyites!! Please don't forget the Laemmle Theaters
in the Valley. They're great for good independent films and documentaries. My husband
and I usually go to the one in Encino, but last Saturday night we went
to the one in the Fallbrook mall. Neither one get tons of business -
and that worries me. I'd hate for Laemmles to get boarded up and
plowed down like the other older Valley theaters.

*Photo on left taken around the time the astronauts first landed on the moon. My sister (left) and me on a crazy car at the Bakken Fun Fair in Copenhagen.

This is our new kitten. She was a little wild cat with a lump on
her side and a fever. My daughter found her running around the side of
our house and took her to the vet this past June.

So we decided to keep her and call her June. The name works out well since our
other cat is named Johnny - you know, like Johnny Cash and June Carter.

Anyway, here's how my family has crossed the line and become "Them": The Nutty Cat People - not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not a lifestyle choice we've ever thought of adopting.

Here's what happened -

One family member (who shall remain nameless) walked into the living
room and found the kitten, June, choking. This nameless person yelled to me, "The cat's
choking on her toy!!" It's a little fuzzy pom pom with a mouse face on
it and a string of yarn with a bell on the end for the tail.

I ran in the room to see the FM (family member) sticking his/her fingers down the
kitty's throat to pull out the toy. I jumped in for some kitty Heimlich
thrusts. Nothing!! So I, too, stuck my fingers down her throat. What do
you know!! She didn't like that. Not at all. So she ravaged my hand
with her little kitty teeth and claws.

With my bloody hand I grabbed my car keys and with the other hand I grasped the kitten, and ran to the car. My daughter ran behind. We sped to an emergency
vet down the street. The kitten was still
breathing. Great. But the the object would be speeding its way down her
stomach. We needed to move fast!

Stupid emergency vet! He couldn't see the kitty toy on June's x-ray. So
in a huff, my daughter and I sped her over to a more trustyworthy vet.
We told them about the silly vet who couldn't see the mass. They nodded
their heads in sympathy, served us chai tea lattes and reasoned the best we could
do would be an endoscope (sp?) (tube with camera) to find the object
and pull it out. So the kitten stays for the over night procedure.

1:35 am - Phone Rings. I know it's the vet. My heart races.

Me: Hello? How's my kitten?

Vet: Sorry.

Me: Excuse me. (My heart dropped to my knees)

Vet: Sorry, you cut out...what did you say?

Me: The kitty, how is she?

Vet: Uh, fine. But we can't see any object other than food in her stomach.

6:30am - I go to pick up the kitten. She is to be taken, with catheter in tow, to our regular vet for further examination.

7:15 am - June the Kitten - who the vet assistant lovingly referred to
as "Butthead" for her obstinate personality (it runs in the family) - and I drove (well, I did the driving and the kitten
ran around the car clawing at her head cone) toward our vet. Maybe the object was lodged too far down?

7:20 am - My cell phone rings. I pull over from driving and dig my phone out of my purse.

Me: Yeah.

Family Member who shall remain nameless: I found the toy.

Yep, the kitten never swallowed the toy. We suspect that her tooth was
just caught on her collar and so it looked like she was gagging.

I told the FM who shall remain nameless, after realizing we now can't
afford to go on vacation due to the cost of this fiasco, "Hey, don't
worry. Let's move forward. Think of it as making a deposit in your
karma bank."

I really want to believe that, because a week in Tahoe would've been a lot of fun. Anyway, apologies to the Vet we found to be lacking in medical knowledge. I guess that degree on your wall does mean something after all.

*This is just something I was thinking the other night when I couldn't sleep - and I just thought of it again when I was trying to talk myself out of working out.

I added this photo I tookof the Eastern Columbia Building in Downtown Los Angeles because I like it and it has a clock... its hands ticking foward, which is the way time moves, doesn't it?*

The day I look forward to -

It’s more exciting than any
holiday and more thrilling than any vacation. The day I look forward to is… someday! It can be next month or next week. And occasionally it’s a year or two from now – but it’s always someday.

Someday is the day I will
look really great in my jeans again and finish the oil painting I started two
years ago. It’s when I will grow an herb
garden. It’s when I will learn French beyond
the minimum I now get by with – which is just enough to keep me sheltered and
fed in a small village.

Someday is the day I will
publish my fifth book - even if, for now, I have yet to send out my first book
proposal.

Someday is when I will be sophisticated and fashionable – even if today
I can barely walk ten feet without tripping or spilling something on my drugstore
sweatshirts.

Thanks to somedays, I sleep
well at night. I don’t worry about all
the things I’ve put off – jogging, bike riding, learning to surf. I know that tomorrow, next week or next month,
I will do it all.

Ha!! As if I've got a guaranteed endless supply of somedays piled up.

Reality is... someday isn’t going to greet me with
balloons, confetti and an Emcee yelling into a microphone, “It’s here –
the day when it’s all going to happen! The day when you're really going to feel elated to put in all that effort!”

No. Someday unceremoniously sneaks
in a moment at a time. Someday has been here waiting.

So if I write one page today
and edit one tomorrow - a month from now I’ll be closer to a completed book.

And right now, though I really, really, really don't want to - I'm going to go work out, because my jeans aren't going to miraculously fit any better if I just keep sitting on this chair.

(Postcard on left, Sherman Way as it was in the 1950s. And the photo I took today.)

If you're in the Valley and are into collectibles and thrift shops, vintage clothes and antique stores, there are plenty on Antique Row. You'll also find some cool little specialty stores, like Dragonfly Stained Glass Studio and the Cake decorating shop, Kake Creations, where I've gone before quite a few of my daughter's birthday parties.

Thanks to Yelp's recommendations, I found out about Cafe Carolina in Encino. Because the reviews were so good, I took a risk and invited friends to join my husband and me last night. (*You can skip this tangent & go on to Cafe Carolina's review if you like) I always get a little nervous asking people to join me for dinner at a place I've yet to try. We did that once before and the evening was a complete embarrassment - so bad, I felt like I needed to pay my friends back for the evening. Basically, I had the wacky idea to meet at a fondue place in the valley. Who knew some cubes of bread, slices of meat and veggies dipped in cheese could rack up to a couple hundred dollars? Not me! But, worse than the huge price, was that my friend almost electrocuted himself with the electric fondue pot's frazzled wire. Oops!

But enough about that -

Cafe Carolina was - thank goodness (as I mop my brow in relief) - as good as the reviews said. It's a cozy little place (nine tables, I believe) run by Chef Giuseppe Dossi, who even answers the phone himself with his friendly Italian accented voice.

First came the salads. My husband and I shared the wonderful spinach salad (Organic baby spinach tossed with red onions, walnuts, mushrooms, warm shallot- mustard vinaigrette and topped with salted ricotta). It was perfect, gently dressed in the warm vinaigrette. It's the sort of salad I aspire to make, but rarely do.

Next, came our butternut squash soup with marsala and mushroom. While the texture was smooth and creamy, I found it bland in spice and a little sweet. But this was the only dish that didn't blow me away.

I heard the gnocchi with Gorgonzola was really good, so I ordered that. Two of my friends, lovers of
good gnocchi, ordered the gnocchi in pesto. My husband ordered steak
with Dijon sauce and another couple ordered Penne in a tomato sauce.

Next, came my gnocchi in Gorgonzola sauce - light, potato dumplings in a seductively silky, rich buttery cream sauce with perfectly flavored (not too pungent) gorgonzola. Ahhhh...the dish looked like pearls immersed in a bed of white silk and tasted... well, this is what I said after my first bite, as two of my gnocchi loving friends and my husband dipped their forks into my dish, "I can imagine growing up as an Italian child and craving this dish as my ultimate comfort food." It made the most creamy mom-made mac and cheese seem about as comforting as a plate of jiggly, cold cube of tofu in comparison. This gnocchi is true comfort food.

Marv and Lisa's eyes rolled back in ecstasy as they each enjoyed my gnocchi... and they know good gnocchi. My husband, while finding his steak quite tasty, said he'd definitely order the gnocchi next time. Everyone cleaned their plates. Nothing was left over. Apparently, everyone was very happy with their dishes.

By this time the little place was filled, and my table was getting a little rowdy (we were on a gnocchi high, I guess). Lisa, so satisfied with her gnocchi in pesto and house salad, stood up and said, "I'm going to go hug Chef Giussepe!" We all watched her march off into the kitchen.

Lisa came back smiling. "What a great guy! I love this place!!"

I told everyone I heard their tiramisu (Ladyfingers, mascarpone and espresso in a delicious layered cake) is really good. So we ordered that and coffees.

As the waitress (and she was great, by the way - even after we wore her out) was about to walk away to get our dessert and coffee, I said, "Wait!! I heard the Chef makes a killer cup of hot chocolate."

"Oh, well, I have to ask him. He only does it at his discretion."

"Please," I begged with a pouty face (I stopped maturing at about four.)

And then she came out with my big, cup of fluffy whipped cream on top of the richest, most incredible European style hot chocolate I'd ever had. Lisa and Marv kept dipping their spoons into it. Lisa finally stole my cup away from me (nah! I gave it to her) . It's sweet, creamy-ness reminded me, somewhat, of the Cafe con Leche I used to have in Spain - something a European mother would make over the stove.

The tiramisu was a great way to finish the meal - one of the best I've had in awhile. After all the soups, salads, entrees, coffees, hot chocolate and desserts each of our meals averaged under $50 per couple. What a deal!

Delighted with our meal, our entire group got up and walked to the kitchen to thank the Chef for the wonderful evening.

*Oh, one more thing - they do not serve alcohol, but charge a $2 corkage fee if you would like to bring a bottle of wine.

Daily News surprised me by publishing this piece I wrote. It was something I had written right after September 11th. I only sent it off to them a few days ago. When I hadn't heard back, I figured they wouldn't publish it. I opened the paper, and there it was. What a nice surprise.

*The photo has nothing to do with the subject, other than it's of a sunset from my front yard - one of those scenes that reminds me of how fortunate I am to be alive.

"Something yummy," I said, thinking of swirls of caramel, ribbons of fudge, chunks of cookie dough. Something with real Umpf. You know, a real pay off to balance out the butterfat laden calories. I wasn't going to instantly inflate my thighs for any old ice cream. It had to be good.

We've been together twenty years, my husband and I. I was pretty sure he knows what I like. So I said (and, man, do I regret it!), "Surprise me!"

About twenty minutes later, he swings through the front door, a smile across his face, looking mighty pleased with himself.

Still sitting on the couch, confident he came home with a winner, I kept reading the Sunday paper. "So... whaddya get?"

So I start racking my brain trying to think where he got that idea. It's the one fruit I never buy. And I'll tell you why - because every time I do, they're lumpy, brownish and bruised, gritty and flavorless with a bitter skin. I've tried to like pears because (oh, I realize why he thinks I like pears) I had one memorable experience with a pear at the age of five. I remember telling him this memory: It was a warm, sunny day in a village in Germany. My parents rode my sister and me on the back of their bikes in child seats. I think we were on our way to the Black Forest. We stopped to pick up food for a picnic (Oh, I loved picnics!). To stave off hunger for the ride, my dad handed me a pear - a golden, plump, frecked, slightly soft to the touch piece of voluptous fruit; its sweet juice dribbled down my chin as the soft breeze blew threw my hair. And we rode to a new adventure.

Ahhh... the fruit had become entwined with that day. Unfortunately, as hard as I've tried, no other pear ever came close to the one I ate that day. They'd all left me disappointed.

Now my husband walks in with Haagen-Daz carmelized pear ice cream. Yick! But I'm no longer five, so I try to be open-minded and I walked over to smell and then taste the stuff. Maybe I am close-minded, because it smelled and tasted more putrid than I even expected.

That's why I won't be surprised to find it in the freezers of 99 cent stores, on its way to being discontinued. I predict It'll keep company with all the other food failures (beet juice cocktail, instant tuna salad in a bowl, Clam-n-Cheese Surprise) that now crowd the shelves of discount stores.

Seriously, I know some people must like this carmelized pear ice cream. But so what? I loved Koogle peanut butter in all its flavors: banana, cinnamon and chocolate. I loved Squoze - mouth puckeringly delicious - instant drink mix. I loved the lemon poppy seed Duncan Hines bundt cakes my mom made like crazy (but only during 1974). I loved A&W teen burgers (juicy cheeseburgers with bacon). But they've all gone away.

I think the reason why so few ice creams have used pear before is for a good reason - it's not a good combo. Plus, any fruit that is so hit and miss that it takes almost forty years and going to an entire other country to find a good one, is not one I want to deal with.

And, yes, it was very nice of my husband to pick up ice cream. Yes, I should've been less of an ingrate. But it's not like he's never suggested, as he pushes away a half-eaten plate of food, that maybe I might not want to make that dish EVER again.

My husband and I braved the 112 degree heat and entered the Valley streets. Our destination, the Promenade Mall's AMC theater in Woodland Hills to see Superbad. We bought our tickets a little early. We had some time, so we went downstairs to the Barnes and Noble Bookstore.

After moseying around, my husband elbowed me. He spotted a kid, about fourteen - a swath of hair hanging over one eye, bony body jangling inside baggy clothes - shuffling beside an older woman who looked to be his mother. She - in beige stretch pants, short blonde-grey hair, shoulders slumped forward and skin the same tone as her polyester pants - looked defeated. Her son grasped the latest edition of Weed Worldin his hand.

Oh, and I saw a woman grab a copy of Pasadena Magazine off the shelf and head to the register. Even I am not so geeky as to say, "Hey, I wrote two articles in that." But, feeling some little bit of pride, I wondered what authors of books must feel when they see people buying what they've written.

In the theater, I settle in with my candy corn as my husband goes to get popcorn. When, suddenly, even the granular-sugary-salty orange, yellow and white striped triangular candies in my hand (a handful of tasty childhood memories) don't seem edible. There's a stench among us.

Oh, humanity is stinky. It's a wretched, putrid, unbreathable fume... has someone not showered? Is it that woman behind me? I noticed her earlier in the mall. From the back she looked like a bony preteen - long blond hair topped by a knit cap (ala Ali McGraw in Love Story), bare legs in short-shorts, feet in chunky platforms and wearing a little T-shirt. But when she turned around, I saw the face belonged to a woman in her 70s. Was it her?

If not - Who, what, how did this stench squelch my enjoyment of candy corn? I dabbed some of my healthstore Egyptian musk body oil (I keep it in my purse) on my wrist to mask the odor.

I was sitting, not in the very first row, but in the first row that people see when they enter the theater from the darkened hallway. As soon as they rounded the handrail, I could see their faces. And every face that entered made a similar expression. Mouth turned down, eyebrows knit into concern, nose sniffing - and everyone... every one of them said, "I smell fish." Yes, that's what it was. Rotten fish. Not fresh cooked salmon. But the stentch that wafts at you when standing near a section of a pier where fish have been gutted for months, years and the skin and guts have rotted and infused into the planks. That's it!

My seat neighbors made comments. We made eye contact. "Someone's eating fish in the theater," the woman said.

"Oh... that's not right," I said. "Nachos with jalapenos are bad enough. But fish..."

More people came in. "I smell fish." Some would walk into the theater hesitantly. Others turned around and left. Soon, a posse - led by an angry bald man in khakis - formed and circled near the entrance. They were strangers united for a cause.

"Look," He advised the concerned citizens. "This same movie's playing in Calabasas a half hour later. We can make it if we leave now."

Yeah..alright...let's go...(rumble, rumble, rumble) the crowd growled. People were getting up and following behind the angry group.

Then a young theater employee peaked in.

"You better do something about that smell," I suggested. "People are getting angry."

He nodded and looked over the seats to see who the suspected fish-eater was. People pointed toward the center.

He nodded, and made his way upward.

I guess he got them to throw away their take-out container, because eventually the smell dissipated.

And the people - the strong, the brave, the too lazy to leave - who remained forgot all about it... and laughed as one.

*P.S. Hey, maybe we were being tested for Smellovision. That would make sense. We were there to see Superbad... and the smell was super bad.

I can't believe I've never gone to the Arboretum in Arcadia before yesterday. It's like Disneyland for Plant lovers. There are different lands: Australia, Africa, Asia, The Americas - lakes, ponds, waterfalls and (my favorite) an herb garden, with the San Gabriel Mountains in the backround.

Apparently, it's one of the most
filmed locations in Los Angeles (Tarzan movies, Fantasy Island, Love Boat, The Road to Singapore, The African Queen - to name a few) Yes, here stands the cottage where little Tattoo (or whatever his name was) on Fantasy Island pointed to the sky and called out "Da plane! Da Plane!"

There were roaming peacocks and geese - and as I was taking photos of a tree, a big ol' red fox (not the one from Sanford & Son) ran by me.

Before walking around, my husband and I drove toward the mountains, stopped in the lovely town of Sierra Madre where we ate sandwiches and drank Italian sodas at Bean Town Coffee bar; it's the type of place (fresh food, coffee, ice cream in a livingroom like setting - cushioned chairs, tables, board games & computers inside and tables outside) that I would have if I ever open a place to eat.

Are we (my husband and I) the only ones who experience this? The amount of money you think of as a nice little bonus, is the EXACT amount your car will cost to be repaired. This has happened so often to me, it can't be a fluke.

When I just moved to LA my Grandma sent me off with a birthday check for $80.00. I drove myself down the 101 from San Francisco to LA, only to have my car break down as soon as I reached the Valley. My car's repair cost? $80.00!!

Who is up there keeping track of these transactions?

This morning as I cleaned out my swimming pool, my husband came outside to join me. Our conversation went something like this:

Him: (Just heard the weather report on the TV) Cloudy today, but sunny this weekend.

Me: That's nice. I don't mind these cloudy days when they mix it up a little. When it's cloudy all the time...

Him: They? When they mix it up? Who are they?

Me: (Nearly falling into the pool laughing as I realized what I said) Uhhh... I guess the co-worker of the guy who decides our auto repair bills will be the amount we were counting on saving... and the guy who works next to the karma police. That's who!

That's about as intellectual as we get around my house... especially in the morning.

Why am I auditioning for a TV game show? Why am I trying out for the roller derby?

Well, see this kid? That's me on my 8th birthday in April of 1972. I was blowing out candles and making a wish. And whatever that wish was - whether it was for the invention of a television-telephone or my future Hollywood stardom - I know I was not wishing for mediocrity.

Unfortunately, I feel like that's just what I spent my last month doing: Using my time and energy toward a mediocre endeavor... and without even realizing it.

Anyway, I remembered the time a friend lamented about her ability to choose good, undrunk men, and how I advised to her to try the "George Costanza" method of choice-making. Did you ever see the Seinfeld episode where George has amazing luck doing the oppositeof what he would normally do? Well, that's the George Costanza method of which I speak. And that's exactly what worked for my friend. She did the opposite of what she normally did and found a nice, undrunk type of guy. Though, in reality, she had too many years of "issues" to practice the Costanza method for long - so she eventually let the guy go. But that's not my point. Here's my point.

MyMission Statement:

For now on, I will put myself into situations I would not normally put myself into and then write about them. All that can happen is 1) I will have a unique and surprising learning experience. Or 2) I'll have great material to write about. And then I'll submit these stories to an appropriate publication or maybe I'll just post them on my blog.

My first self-given assignment starts on Wednesday. I'm auditioning for a network game show. I figure that might make for an interesting story, and - who knows? - maybe I'll even win some money so I can remodel my kitchen. And on a scale of one to ten - ten being the scariest - auditioning for a game show registers only about a 4 in the discomfort factor. So maybe one day I'll learn to fly an airplane (like my grandpa) or - you never know - jump out of one.

Next I'm trying out for the roller derby. Hey, I already bought my mouth guard and hot pink tights.

(For anyone who read my original rant - I removed it for two reasons 1) It sounded whiney and 2) the experience of which I ranted will have to just go onto my long list of mistakes I've made which I will have to learn from.) It's time to move on.

The following is a sample of our dinner repartee. My excuses are 1) We were famished and 2) We've been married so long we need to entertain ourselves with whatever is on our table or surrounding us in lieu of date-like conversation -

First, the waiter arrived with my husband's martini, and then placed my glass of Pinot Grigio down on the table; it was in a massive wine glass with a small puddle - the amount of what appeared to be about four grapes - at the bottom.

Waiter: Is there anything else I can get for you?

Me: (Looking at my huge wine glass filled with its relatively small amount of Pinot Grigio) Yeah, some more wine.

He laughed and walked away.

I tipped the huge glass back trying to sway the thimble sized amount of liquid into my throat.

My Husband: Hey, there's Alicia Silverstone!

Me: (Head swiveling) Huh?

Oh, right, that was a joke. We were in a steak restaurant and she's a vegetarian. These are the things married people who also work together all day long say to each other over dinner.

But my stomach was empty and the wine fumes must've been getting to me, because I laughed. My face was surrounded by the huge wine glass goblet. I tried to tip the wine toward my face. As I laugh, the sound bounced off the inside walls of the humongous wine glass. The whole restaurant can hear..."Hawwwww awwwww aaaaaah aaaahhhh... Hawwww awwww ahhhhhhhhhh."

Me: (clearly in need of something to do to get my mind off my hunger, I grab the lacey paper doiley under my salad plate) Hey, a hat!

The bus boy is trying to clear our table for dinner. Very seriously he says, "Uh... Okay. I was going to clear the table but you can have that as a hat."

I hand over the doiley.

The busboy looks at my husband who is still eating his salad. "Can I take your salad plate, sir?"

My husband said, "No, thanks. I'm still eating it."

There were about four big bites of salad on his plate. The busboy stood over my husband watching him eat, waiting.

My husband stared at him and stopped eating. The bus boy got the hint and left.

The chopped salad was great, but we wanted what we came for: Sizzling, juicy meat.

We then hear that familiar sound - the loud sizzle. And we smell the aroma of melting garlic, butter and meat. A cart is set up in front of our table. My husband and I, both smiling, enthusiasically grab our forks, ready to pounce.

The server then takes the sizzling plates of food and hands them to the table next to us.

What? That's not our food? "You tease!" I yell to the server.

Then my husband and I discussed the situation.

Husband: It didn't look like a steak anyway... think it was chicken.

Me: Yeah, those weren't potatoes.

We realized we were like Pavlov's dogs - Sound, smell... time to eat!!! Even though our eyes were conveying a whole different message. Rather than our steaks and potatoes, they were actually plates of chicken and some other vegetable entirely. Our senses were so overwhelmed they had overloaded and our messages became crossed.

The next time the server arrived and placed a sizzling cart before us, we both paid careful attention with our eyes. Two sizzling steaks? Check. Fluffy, garlic mashed potatoes? Check. Ours? Please!!! This time, Yes. And, man, they were good!

(Drawing above - an original work done by Yours Truly. I call this "Massive glass with little wine, confusing meat and lacey doiley that becomes hat") *Note - doiley hat drawing (right lower corner) can also be interpreted as my husband's salad

This Saturday, August 11th, from noon to 4 p.m., will be Home Movie Day at the Linwood Dunn Theater on Vine Street in Hollywood. Appearing will be... my old 8 mm family films! Along with other home movies, of course. I can't wait! Since the first time I heard of this event I wanted to go. While you couldn't pay me to sit through "Sex and the City," I could watch strangers' home movies for hours. So I thought I'd see if I could include mine with the others.

Years ago, I edited our family films to Beatles' songs onto VHS. There are glimpses of California in the 1940s through the 1970s and Europe in the late 1960s. There are montages of my mom and her sister in 1940s black and white playing in San Francisco. Those films fade to color as my dad's movie camera scans Golden Gate park of 1967, where my sister and I
are tumbling on the grass below Hippie Hill.

Behind us are young hippies, some strumming guitars. Then we're in Disneyland, where I push a little girl away from Chip or Dale and stalk Pluto. From there, we fly to Europe where we buy our trailer. There's a lot of smiling, waving and mugging for the camera as we pass gypsies and the guards of Buckingham Palace; the sun sparkles on the canals of Venice and on the Mediterranean of Greece... we move through Morocco, Yugoslavia, Italy... many countries and years all edited down to just snippets, bits, pieces of our family as it once was a long time ago.

I Googled Vroman's in Pasadena to see if they carry the new Pasadena Magazine I've been writing for - and what do I find? Robbie "Ode to Billy Joe" Benson's blue eyes staring back at me.

Apparently, on August 29th he's signing his new book, "Who Stole the Funny?" - humorous tales from behind the scenes in the TV industry.

As an eleven-year-old, I saw "Ode to Billie Joe" and cried my eyes out for the saddest tale of love-gone-tragic I'd ever seen - okay, other than "Romeo and Juliet," "West Side Story" and maybe "Gone with the Wind" - and so I became ga ga for Robbie. Every boy I had a crush on after that had dark hair and blue eyes.

So the eleven-year-old in me would love to drive to Vroman's, buy his book and have him sign it. And, anyway, I love humorous, behind the scene Hollywood books. Industry people are hilarious without even trying to be. And, hey, I've got an entire collection of author signed books. I could just consider this another part of the collection. I could justify attending his book signing, make myself sound completely rational. But, in reality - even after all the justifications - I know that I would revert to my eleven-year-old self and say something that might even top all of the other foolish things I've uttered in my foot-in-mouth-filled lifetime.

But, man, if he hasn't gotten even cuter... See, I just sounded like a preteen. At least I didn't say he's a real fox.

It was pretty thrilling to see my family films, which I edited down to a montage, displayed on a huge screen. I narrated over a microphone, "Oh, and I'm the kid with the underwear showing," as me, circa 1967 at three, sang on stage in an over-starched crinoline skirt sticking straight up in the air revealing my frilly white underpants. "Notice the people passing joints in the background," I pointed out as my sister and I innocently danced on the grass of Golden Gate Park's Hippie Hill in San Francisco, oblivious to the other kind of "grass" being smoked at the time.

"Obla Di Obla Da" played as my suburban family - mom in a flip and dad in crew cut - change from one clip to another into long haired twenty-somethings in bell bottoms doing hippie dances on a sunny day in the hills of Berkeley - or was it Marin? - as "Here Comes the Sun" fades out and the screen goes to black. Yep, it was quite a thrill.

After I narrated my film, some guy came to talk to me from the audience, something about showing my film in San Francisco at a Summer of Love Anniversary. But another film was already starting in the dark and someone else was trying to narrate, so I asked if we could talk later. But I never saw him again.

The films were a potluck of stuff - 1940s dads mowing lawns and matronly women in floral dresses shooing away the camera. And there was some really interesting footage: Beverly Hills, circa 1932, covered in snow; P.O.P (Pacific Ocean Park) amusement area in Venice, California with high-diving mules and transportation pods dangling over the ocean; camp kids in the 1930s doing Indian dances and canoing; a 1930s transvestite film; Yvonne De Carlo and her movie star boyfriend playing in the snow and deserts of California; 1950s family vacations of the Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore and motels across the nation; birthday parties and barbecues of families from the 1920s to the 1960s - providing a history of hair-dos (Louise Brooks-style bobs to Annette Funicello-Beach-Blanket-Bingo-bouffants of the 1960s.)

One woman brought some film she shot as a young college student of the New York 1964 Worlds Fair. "Oh, there's my sister who I don't talk to anymore," she pointed out. Members of the audience yelled, "You should call her!" "You two need to talk. Life's too short!" and the lady groused into her microphone, "That's not gonna happen." Someone else in the crowd piped up, "Does your sister have kids?" The narrator's answer was short and sharp: "Unfortunately, yes."

We watched family of many eras who all seemed perfectly happy waving, dancing, eating, laughing... but who knows what's become of them. Do they talk to each other any longer? Are they still living? Did their lives unfold as happily as their brief film moments? What would they think of an audience of strangers watching them as they dive into public swimming pools or blow out candles?

Many of the films shown were from family collections, but some were brought in by people who collect films from estate and garage sales. While they were interesting to watch, I got sad wondering why the families don't own the films themselves. There was one beautiful 16 mm colored film of a family in the suburbs of Westchester, California. The doorway of their yellow and white ranch-style home was the focus of many shots. The five or six blonde girls and boys - the boys in cuffed jeans and the girls in circle skirts - streamed out of the home, waving and smiling. The blonde mom in her salon-set hairdo, waved and smiled a red-lipsticked smile - looking proud of her brood as she walked behind them. Later, the kids as teenagers are shown on a family camping trip. The boys are playing horseshoes and one of the girls, in a red and white gingham shirt and denim clam-diggers, is now a teenager with her hair in a flip. Another scene, one of the girls, maybe the teen in gingham, is getting married. The family, now grown, is streaming out of the yellow and white house in suits with corsages and silky dresses with hair upswept. The parents are older and beaming with pride as they surround the young bride at her reception.

The woman who brought the film said she bought the family's movies from the same Westchester house that is shown in most of the scenes. How could one family with so many kids not want to keep those films of vacations, weddings and growing up in one home? I still can't figure that out.

But it was definitely interesting to watch how people lived once. The homes seemed smaller, the families seemed to spend a lot of time outdoors in backyards - maybe because they didn't have air conditioning. Large families seemed to think nothing of traveling the country with a car full of kids. Today, people are more likely to take cruises or fly somewhere where the parents can drink while the hotel or cruise staff placate their children.

Anyway, thanks to the archivists and all for putting on this event. They are very passionate about all film - not just of the Hollywood star variety - and that it should be preserved for generations to enjoy for years to come.